Treacherous
by newheights
Summary: The story of a baker who falls for a biker. Juice x OC
1. Chapter 1

My pride and joy, the thing I've worked for my entire life is 1,200 square-feet  
with a striped awning on the only road out of town, and it's called Bakery on Main.

Not exactly the most original name, but why would I care?

I was blessed with a passion for baking, but not exactly creativity in the naming department.

Maybe once it's paid off and I own it free and clear I can come up with something a little snappier.

I'm sure to be in a better mood by the time I'm through tediously saving every penny I can.

This is, of course, assuming that the lady on the customer's side of the counter doesn't burn

the entire shop and surrounding plaza down first, which seems like a distinct possibility.

I hear Gemma for the first time a moment before I lay eyes on her-she's raising hell,

yelling at Cindy my sometimes-apprentice, actually calling her a tart as I scrambled out of the kitchen

and into the line of fire. Quite frankly, I was shocked.

Cindy, of course, _is_ a tart, but never in my life had I heard that word used in an actual sentence.

Not even on BBC.

Naturally, I gulped when I saw the face attached to the voice: this was on tough Mama.

_Yes_, I reminded myself, _but you're the boss_.

Which meant I had to square my shoulders and interrupt, like it or not.

"Cin, go finish frosting the cinnamon cupcakes, I've got this."

I've never seen Cindy-the-slacker move so quickly in my life as she turned tail,

fleeing into the land of sugarplumbs. I brushed my hands off on my apron, already smeared

with flour, and took a fortifying breath. Fine. Everything was fine.

"Can I help you?"

I made sure to inject a note of authority into my voice, not that it impressed anyone.

The woman cocked her eyebrow at me and almost succeeded in making me feel inferior without

even speaking, no easy feat.

I thought about out-sassing her (or trying) but in the end I just stayed quiet.

"I sure hope so, sweetheart."

She took a breath herself and seemed to calm down a few notches.

"I'm here to pick up a cake."

I was immensely relieved. An order pickup? That was all?

I was going to murder Cindy.

Or better yet, fire her.

"What name's it under?"

The Woman looked over the counter at me, baffled.

"How the hell should I know? The porn-skank placed the order, I'm just here to pick it up."

The...porn-skank? I make an effort to pull myself together.

"Maybe it's under Cara Cara?"

I suggest, vaguely familiar with the local enterprise.

Years ago, one of their girls had come in and ordered a cake for a wrap party.

A phallic cake.

"I can check-"

"_NO_."

She is vehement on this.

Um. Okay.

"It's not for Cara Cara. It's for a kids birthday party."

Alright. She lost me there.

"Um..."

She bulldozed right over my dazed self.

"A kids birthday party _this afternoon_." She elaborated.

"Supposed to say 'Happy Birthday, Ellie'."

I didn't even bother responding, just dove under the counter for the order folder,

banging my forehead on the way down.

Miss Bossy hissed in sympathetic pain, but I ignored the entire thing.

If the party was this afternoon, I would have to hustle.

What was a lousy concussion, anyway?

I flipped the thick red folder onto the counter between us, leaving through the order sheafs.

Then, I did it again, more slowly.

Nothing. Nada.

"The closest thing we have in here is 'Happy Retirement, Eliot', but maybe-"

"Shit!" She cursed explosively, taking an uninvited look for herself.

"I knew I shouldn't have trusted that whore to do this."

She muttered to herself, pinching the bridge of her nose once she was done clearly, agitated,

before looking up at me. "How fast can you make a cake, sweetheart?"

Oh, crap.

Just when I thought I was rid of her.

"When's the party?" I sigh, resigned.

"Four."

We closed at four on Sundays, but hell if I had anything planned.

A TV dinner and The Simpsons, maybe, if my cable was working.

"It's almost two now...I'd have to charge for a rush job-"

She waves this off emphatically.

"You deliver?"

I actually didn't, but I was scared of her. I also hated the idea of a kids birthday being ruined.

"I can."

She reaches into her behemoth bag, and I see a flash of silver that I studiously convince

myself_ is not_ a handgun and furthermore not my problem as long as she isn't pointing it my direction,

finally emerging with two hundred-dollar bills.

"Cake for a couple dozen people or so-this cover it?"

I would think yes.

Another, darker-haired woman strolls in, addressing the steamroller in front of me, as

I reach for a notepad, all business.

"Jax called. Wants to know what's the holdup?"

Young brunette is waved off, too.

"I handled it."

"Flavor?" I pipe up, and am briefly met with blank stares all around.

I open my mouth to rattle the varieties off, but thankfully am saved from this.

"Chocolate. Cake AND icing."

I like her style.

"What color is 'Happy Birthday, Ellie' in?"

"Pink."

I've barely written this down before she commandeers the pad, jotting down an

address on the other side of Charming, tapping it twice for emphasis.

"Four O'clock."

I nod at her and busy myself with the prep work before she's even left the shop.

I've got a cake to bake.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm done at exactly 3:45, tucking the cake into one of our signature purple boxes, and head out, closing up  
shop not only early but alone-Cindy is long since gone for the day.  
I'm pretty sure Tough Mama traumatized her.

I barely have time to even breathe before I'm haul-assing across town (Thank God Charming is so small, otherwise I'd be late.)  
in my vintage Impala, the cake buckled in a lot more securely than I was.  
I have bare minutes to spare I note gleefully killing the engine halfway down the block from the instructed delivery address.  
Even without the street number, or directions, I'm positive I would have been able to find the place-there were cars everywhere.  
Cars and Harley's, which actually explained a lot.  
And I was expected to _go in there_?  
This is rich.  
I fortified myself by thinking about the extra hundred bucks I had been paid, and hurled myself out of the car, heading up the  
block before I could lose my nerve.

I rang the doorbell twice as a courtesy before giving up and following the sounds of a large gathering around  
the side of the house and into a good-sized back yard.  
I was greeted immediately, and warmly, which is not always as great as it sounds when you consider the group  
of people I was dealing with.  
"Hey honey, whatcha got there?"  
A man with curly black hair asks and I will myself not to flinch as he wraps a casual arm around my shoulders.  
How foolish I must have looked, standing there holding a pastel purple box, still wearing the apron streaked with flour.  
"I told you!"  
A short, chubby man roars nearby at an unidentified person.  
"I would have baked the kid banana nut bread!"  
This goes largely ignored, save for an older guy wielding an oxygen tank, who yells  
"SHUT UP, ELVIS." before approaching me, asking, "You here with the cake?"  
I nod stupidly and he jerks his thumb in the general direction of the back door of the house.  
"Kitchen's that way. Tig, quit pawin' the new girl."  
Taking care to disentangle myself from Grabby-Hands (Tig? Had I heard that right?) I head in the direction  
he'd pointed, lobbing a polite 'Nice to meet you' over my shoulder as I take pains  
to stay on the edge of the mob of people.

All of the women I'd later come to know and lean on were clustered around the french doors,  
keeping outsiders, well...out.  
I approached them with maximum trepidation, the cake held aloft like some kind of peace offering.  
"Hi."  
This is met with blank stares.  
Hostile blank stares, if such a thing could be said to exist.  
"I'm here with Ellie's cake...?"  
I like to thing it's the 'E' word that relaxes them, softens the group up as a whole, but maybe it's just  
the prospect of chocolate.  
"Thank God," the oldest of the women sighs with relief, exhaling a stream of smoke.  
"GEMMA!" She shrieks into the house without preamble, startling me.  
"CAKE'S HERE."  
The woman who placed the order barrels out through the women, who part like the red sea in order to  
let her through and I'm glad to be able to put a name to the face.  
Gemma. It fit her.  
"Thank Christ."  
Gemma seconds, and exhales her own cloud of smoke, one I'm almost entirely positive does not involve nicotine.  
"I thought it was never gonna get here."  
"I'm early!"  
I cry before I can stop myself, indignant to have my rush job questioned.  
It stung a little, that I'd busted my ass to get over here on time and it still wasn't fast enough.  
Not that I needed this womans approval, or anything.  
Gemma quirks a perfectly groomed eyebrow at me, flicking her  
joint (ha! I_ knew_ it wasn't cigarette smoke) down and grinding it out with the heel of her stiletto.  
"Smart-mouthed bitch."  
I'm taken aback as she relieves me of the cake box, and it must show on my face because the woman  
who yelled for Gemma speaks up.  
"Don't worry, hon. She means it as a compliment."  
Gemma stops short as she hears this, and then catches the incredulous look on my face.  
"How the fuck else would I mean it?!"  
And then, before I can even react to this,  
"You gonna stay for the party, kid? Grab yourself a drink, you look like you need it."  
She's off like a shot, looking for candles and I immediately begin to stealthily try to sneak my way out of this shindig.  
All I want is to go home and watch WE Wedding Sunday-forget The Simpsons, I was breaking out the big guns.  
Fortunately (although I didn't realize it at the time) for me, I'm halted before I can even begin.

"Luann."  
There's a drink thrust into my hand, something dark in a SOLO cup, and I'm guessing that this was an introduction.  
"Charlie. Thanks."  
Gemma breezes by us again, on her way to deposit the cake on a picnic table set up right in the middle of the yard.  
"Gotcha a drink." She notes. "Good. Enjoy the fruits of your labor."  
I'm surprised by all of this, but Luann seems unphased.  
"You did a solid for her, kid. Really saved the day with that cake-she must be impressed.  
Gem don't issue invitations to outsiders easily."  
This is oddly touching, and I feel myself caving.  
"Okay. Alright.  
_One_ drink."  
Luann smiles, lifting her own SOLO cup, and I can't tell if what's said next is snark or genuine awe.

"To the Queen of Charming."  
Unsure, I toast.  
If only I knew.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm preparing to make my daring escape an hour later, still nursing my single drink, still unsure of what was in it.  
Malt liquor, maybe? Nothing I was used to.  
Everyone's nice enough in their own destructive little way.  
I don't have any problems, but the 'outsider' stigma lurks persistently in the corner of my mind as I find myself fully aware of its meaning for the first time in my life-these people have a bond that is most certainly not easily penetrated. So, yeah, I sneak out when no one's looking, okay? Can you really blame me?  
I run into no resistance until I reach my car, halfway down a now-darkened street-I can barely make out the shape of my Impala.  
Do these people not believe in street lights?  
I'm debating heading back to the party to beg for an escort, trying to convince myself that I could handle being branded both an outsider and a wimp all in one evening. Honestly, I can't. And who knows, the person chosen to escort me may actually be scarier than a deserted street.  
This is Charming, after all. What's the worst that can happen?  
I'm reaching my beloved car when someone steps out from behind it, actually pops up out of nowhere like this is some cheesy horror movie and I'm the bitch dumb enough to run around in her underwear investigating strange noises in the basement, alone.  
Or the bitch dumb enough to try and navigate an unfamiliar street in the dark, also alone.

I hadn't known anyone was there, but I'd learn later that he'd seen me coming a mile off, not that this information makes me feel any better.  
I immediately drop the keys I had been clutching, turn on my heel to run, and start screaming bloody murder all in one fluid movement.  
Whoever it is reaches out and grabs my arm, halting me before I can get more than a few steps away. And I had been_ hurrying_. It's almost embarrassing.  
Even more so when I hear a low rumbling chuckle as something metal and cold is pressed into my open palm. My keys.  
"You dropped these."  
The voice sounds like the owner had been gargling with gravel recently, but the tone was cordial enough. Not that I can say the same for myself once I've whipped around to face him indignantly.  
"What the FUCK do you think you're doing, scaring people like that?"  
It wasn't until I was done with my screaming that I actually took in the apparition before me. 6'2, wearing leather, sporting a tattooed head. Well, shit. He was definitely going to kill me now. Unbelievably, he starts laughing. At me. To my face, I almost would have preferred death, had I not known that my cat Murray was waiting on dinner at home.  
"I'm sorry."  
Wait, he's apologizing?  
"Relax. I was just smokin'."  
Incredibly, he produces a lit cigarette for proof. Here I was, almost dead of a heart attack, and he'd held onto his smoke.  
I cocked an eyebrow at him-I'd come this far, why not push my luck, right?  
"Tired of the kiddie party?"  
The man in front of me scoffs at this.  
"Security."  
I stand there, blinking at him. These people need to security for a kids birthday party? What were they, the mob? Before I could respond to this (like I even had a response) a truck full of men flies past us, one of them leaning out of the window far enough to call me 'Croeater scum'. From his tone (and the way the biker next to me tensed up), I assume this was meant as an insult, but it's lost on me completely.  
"Stupid pricks."  
He mutters and appears to physically shake it off before turning his attention back to me, throwing his cigarette butt away.  
"Look, next time someone startles you, make sure to hang onto your keys. Use 'em in your fist, or jab 'em in the eye,"  
He's got a hold of me again, demonstrating, and flashes a grin that, unbelievably, I find myself returning.  
"Then run like hell?"  
I ask. It seems like the sensible thing. He full-on smiles, eclipsing the grin entirely.  
"You got it. Get home safe."  
He pats the top of my car before melting back into the shadows. I nod, answering even though I can no longer see him.  
"I'll try. Also...thanks."


	4. Chapter 4

I meant to post this in the last chapter, and forgot! I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who has subscribed or favorited or reviewed. It means so so much to me, and I'm glad everyone likes it! Also, I received a tip that my format was choppy, so I've tried to fix that up a bit:)

xx

Looking back, it's easy to pinpoint where my life began to change, but as I was living it, everything felt fine-at first. Ellie's birthday party was little more than a deviation from my normal routine. Sometimes, I find myself wondering if I would have thrown on the brakes, or even run in the other direction as quickly as possible, if I'd known what was coming, but a large part of me thought not.

I arrived home safely, bemused by my encounter, Murray waiting for me at the door. I feed him and am actually able to catch a little of David Tutera's show before passing out. My troubles began the very next morning, as soon as I walked out of the safety of my cozy little home, to find that my car had been keyed. My car._ Keyed_._ In my own driveway_. Well, shit damn hell.  
I was going to spend most of my afternoon on the phone arguing with insurance agents. Talk about a Monday. And, believe it or not, my day only went downhill from there-our customer base began dropping like flies. All throughout the day, in-between haggling about a new paint job with what sounded like Flo from the Progressive commercials via phone, I was fielding calls left and right, all from people who wanted to cancel orders from upcoming jobs. I say I did this because after the second rude flaky customer Cindy had to deal with in an hour she broke down into tears and I sent her sensitive ass home. Oy.  
Tuesday wasn't much better as I watched our walk-in business deteriorate before my very eyes, not that it was hard to tell why. Bikers. Huge, gross looking bikers, loitering around my store, not that David Hale, the dolt, would do anything about it. This was Main street, and as soon as he'd arrive, they'd just dart into the cigar shop anyway. And then what was I going to do? Complain that they were taking up parking? All of this would have been at least acceptable had the bikers seemed like the ones from Sunday's party, but these guys were more like the lean-out-of-a-window and yell at a lady type. They were outside jeering when I left, and I did my best to ignore them.  
I wasn't even sure what they were on about-hanging out with a rival MC? Cutting into their coke cartel?  
I didn't even know what the hell any of that meant. Did cartel's even exist outside of Columbia?  
All of this because I didn't want a little girls birthday to suck. What a world we live in.  
I went home, drank a Seagrams (or three) and cried myself to sleep.

If I had known what Wednesday had in store, I would have stayed in bed indefinitely. This is not something that I'm proud of, but it's the truth. My bakery was toast, and I mean that quite literally. I actually sat in my car, staring dumbfounded for a solid ten minutes, afraid to move, afraid to get out of my car for a closer look. Even then, I was unsteady on my feet, shaking. How had something like this happened on Main Street? In Charming? The store window, I noted as the sun rose, had been broken through with bricks and apparently the front room had been burned pretty thoroughly. There were still embers and small patches where the flames had yet to burn themselves out. Adding insult to injury, over my pretty little 'Bakery On Main' baby pink candy striped, hand-painted awning, someone had spray-painted slur words that I didn't even want to repeat. That awning had cost a fortune. I was pissed, and yeah, okay, crying as a bike roared up behind me, making me realize that I was standing on a very deserted street very early in the morning. Unthinkingly, I held my keys in my fist, as he slowed down, whistling to get my attention, like he didn't have it already.  
"Nice place ya got there, Princess." The Biker sneered.  
"You can thank your friends at Teller-Morrow Automotive for the...redecorating."  
"Teller-Morrow?" I sputtered. "What the_ fuck_?"  
The animal laughed, blowing me a kiss before speeding off, and I saw red. My first thought was to go to the Police Station, and file a report, which killed a few hours. Thankfully Chief Unser was working, so I had at least one sympathetic ear.  
After that, I sat in the parking lot, feeling relatively safe, and dialed my insurance agent. Again.  
My former insurance agent, Flo informed me. I had been dropped from my policy for 'the amount of damage incurred in a limited time'. I didn't know what to even say to that, so I hung up feeling murderous. Everything I had worked for, saved for, scraped every penny for, was gone, all in one fell swoop. I knew nothing at the time about Teller-Morrow Automotive, other than it was a garage just inside the city limits. I did know, however, exactly where it was located, and roared my car to life heading that direction, stupidly looking for answers.


	5. Chapter 5

When I pulled into the lot and saw all of the Harley's lined up in one menacing row, I had a realization: this was probably a bad idea.  
My plan was flawed and weak, and ill-thought out, but I was too far gone in my rage to stop or turn back. Never once did it cross my mind that if a kids birthday party had cost me my business, what would entering enemy territory do? Later, my own actions would strike me as utterly insane, but they always say hindsight is 20/20. I was barely out of my still-keyed car, parked haphazard and crooked, but a respectable difference away from the bikes when a mohawked-lothario pushed off of what I presumed to be his own Harley, a beautiful bike among the line of many, and approached me, smiling openly.  
"Hey, can I help you?"  
At the time, I barely even glanced his way, heading straight for the building.  
"I need to speak to Teller."  
His eyebrows wrinkled above his sunglasses, and he looked confused something that I was sure was not new to him.  
"Jax? He's not here-"  
"FINE."  
I interrupt, throwing my hands around in exasperation. By then, I'd worked myself into a lather.  
"Where's Morrow?"  
Clearly, I was talking out of my ass, but thankfully, I projected while doing so, bringing Gemma out of the office to witness the spectacle, looking immaculate in her biker-chic attire, shading her eyes against the sun to get a good look at me.  
"She's both."  
Mohawk tells me, sotto voce, watching the both of us very carefully, waiting on someone to make the first move. Finally, Gemma smiles.  
"Hey, cake girl. Help you, sweetheart?"  
I went to storm towards her-honestly, just to talk-but I resembled a hostile threat, apparently, judging by the way I was halted mid-step, and I mean physically restrained from proceeding. Really, this was getting embarrassing. I'd thought myself a capable athletic woman (for a baker) until coming across these men with the tattooed scalps. Mohawk-guy was quick, though, I'll admit, darting in front of me before I could even register what was happening let alone throw on the brakes, causing me to thud into his chest painfully. _Rude._  
As if I weren't humiliated enough, he takes my arms to steady me, keeping a light hold on them, not tightly enough to hurt, but tightly enough to let me know I'm not going anywhere near the Queen.  
"Whoa there," he starts, only to be interrupted.  
"Tough little bitch, aint'cha?"  
Gemma asks looking amused as she approaches us. I'm left to assume this is a good thing.  
"It's okay, Juice." She says, finally calling off the dogs, making me blink. Juice? Really?  
He releases me, but neither of us move and inch otherwise, and I can't help but notice how attractive he is close up, even if he is in need of a good shave.  
"Everything okay, Gem?"  
He asks inanely once we've finally broken eye-contact and she snorts derisively.  
"Girl's a fuckin' mess. What's _she_ gonna do to _me_?"  
I don't even bother defending myself. I have mascara running all over the place and Gemma could take me in a heartbeat, so everything she's implying? All of this is true.  
"I'll just be...over here." Juice tells us, pointing to his Harley before resuming his leaning stance, unabashedly staring at the scene unfolding around him. Gemma eyes me pointedly, then nods to my car.  
"So? What's all this?"  
Just like that, as if she knew me. As if she cared. Sometime during this exchange, I'd stopped crying but her motherly concern was almost enough to set me off again. Later, Gemma would tell me that she respected the hell out of my stiff upper lip, and I knew enough to know that it meant something, coming from her.  
"Maybe you can tell me,"  
I hoped aloud before taking a deep breath and plunging into the entire story, bringing on a noticeable pause as I finished.  
"Well?" I pressed impatiently, which was so far beyond not being my place, not that I knew that yet. She ignores me, beckoning this Juice character back over and I hastily swipe at my eye makeup. Not that it matters, but I probably look like Alice Cooper, and he's actually cute. "Repeat that." Gem demands. "All of it."  
So I do-I don't see much of a choice, not if I want answers.  
Not once during this entire fiasco does it occur to me to doubt Gemma's place in the grand scheme of things, and later I'll marvel at this, but not now. Now it just seems right. Also, Juice seems interested in the story, and I have bigger fish to fry.  
"Describe the guy." Juice presses, and I do, mostly remembering his bike. It feels like it's going to be another long day.


	6. Chapter 6

Once I'm done, there's yet another lengthy pause before Juice succumbs to a deep sigh, sounding entirely defeated.  
"Rebels." He says, as if this means anything to me. Then, to Gemma-"I'll call Jax." Whoever Jax is, she approves of calling him.  
"You do that."  
My head is spinning and it must show clearly on my face because Gem surprises me by looping an arm around my shoulders to steer me towards the office she'd emerged from.  
"Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you a drink. I'm sure Piney's got some tequila stashed in a filing drawer somewhere.  
Maybe we should try P for Patron." I'm fully aware of what she's doing, trying to pretend everything is normal and okay, trying to keep me in one spot long enough to go over the story yet again once her "boys" return from a "run", and I'm also willing to follow Gemma, to lean on her just for this moment. I wonder but don't ask why she's being so nice and I don't notice Juice's eyes following us as we walk away.

An hour later, people have poured onto the lot by the dozens, my car has been moved (I don't ask why or how) and Gemma has relocated us to a picnic table outside, a vast improvement from the stuffy office. Just being outside in the sunshine has lifted my spirits considerably.  
Also, Gemma has weed. She says it's for a heart condition, which seems credible, given the scar she sports proudly like a battle wound, but quite frankly, as long as she's sharing, I really don't give a shit. As a responsible business woman, I had never imbibed in anything stronger than my sad flavored beer, but now I was without a business, or at least a building, so I took a large hit as Guns N Roses blared from speakers surrounding a boxing ring. Welcome to the jungle, indeed.  
"Easy," Gemma laughs at me, and a cheer goes up before I can respond, followed by a whole hell of a lot of bikes pulling into the lot.  
The returning heroes, I presumed. The tough Old Lady next to me vanished as she lit up becoming a Wife and Mother, taking off towards the ruckus without even bothering to take her joint, making me smile for the first time in what felt like days. Hell, it could have been literal days-with the week I'd had, who knew, really? I'm jerked from my slightly baked musings when I feel a heavy ringed-hand on my shoulder, and I turn to face the man who had run security at the party. "I remember you," I blurt out, and there it is again, that grin.  
"Been holding onto your keys?"  
I laugh-I can't help it. "Sure, but not much else."  
He drops his hand and straightens, the cute dimples disappearing as Gemma stalks back over, her Old Man in tow.  
"Hey, Prez," Prez? What? God, I was out of my element here.  
"Church in an hour." The man replies and dimples nods before making himself scarce. I really need to start learning some names.  
"Charlie?" Prez asks and I nod, a little frightened of him. He's a bear of a man. "I'm Clay."  
He gestures to a man I had yet to notice standing just slightly behind him. "This is Jax." Jax, from the phone, Jax.  
I smile tentatively, not really sure what to say. Under the circumstances 'Nice to meet you' doesn't feel quite appropriate, so I settle for something simple and direct, my voice squeaking. "Hi,"  
Jax looks at me gravely, his expression unwavering. "Heard you had some problems?"  
I look to Gemma. I don't know why, but I do.  
Thankfully, all she does is nod, as if this were to be expected. Clearly she'd been to this rodeo a few times before.  
"My husband and son, President and Vice President of this MC." She reassures me, like I knew what the fuck an MC was, but even stoned, I could take an educated guess and go with 'Motorcycle club'. She grabs my chin briefly, making sure that I look at her.  
"You're safe here." Incredibly, I feel myself relax.  
"Now, tell them everything you told me."  
Here we go again.


	7. Chapter 7

By the third time I repeated everything that had happened to Clay and Jax, spilling out the entire sad story I found that the ache had lessened considerably, had become relatively dull. It was beginning to feel like a story to tell instead of the worst thing to ever happen to me. Jax nods once I'm done speaking before immediately vanishing again, and Clay-am I supposed to call him Clay?-places a gnarled hand on my shoulder, mirroring the earlier gesture from Dimples, the one he had walked up on. Touchy people, bikers. Who would have thought?  
"We're gonna make this right." Stupidly touched by this, I nod at him as he gives my shoulder a little squeeze before a smile plays across his face. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to see my Old Lady, in private." He points two fingers at me as he drags a laughing Gemma into the office-"Don't leave the lot. Make yourself at home."  
The smile is replaced by a feral grin that would absolutely terrify me if I were to find myself on his bad side."Welcome to SAMCRO."

I leave the picnic table before long, in search of a bathroom. Flicking the joint away absentmindedly I head into what is commonly referred to as 'The Clubhouse', hoping that this was an acceptable thing for me to do. I'd seen people coming in and out of this building all afternoon, so it seemed safe. Juice was leaned across the pool table, cue in hand talking to a man I recognized from over the weekend, the one who had drunkenly yelled about banana bread. Elvis, hanging around waiting to take his shot. Juice was clearly busy but somehow managed to catch my eye almost the same instant it lit upon him, causing me, absurdly, to blush.  
He hit Elvis on the shoulder good-naturedly before ambling over. "Hey. Having fun?"  
I smile in a non-committed way. "Sorry about earlier," I yell over the din instead of answering his question. I don't know what I'm having, but at least I feel safe. "I'm Charlie." Juice gives me a slow smile making my stomach jump violently. He really is way too good looking for a hoodlum. "Get you anything, Charlie?" It's nice of him to offer, but I realize to my embarrassment that there's only one thing I need. I could either ask Juice or hold it for another hour, wondering around this building-my options were limited.  
"Is there a bathroom nearby?" Probably, he thought I was blowing him off or going to throw up or something, but he handled it with grace, God bless him, laying his hand on the crook of my arm (again, with the touching) while giving me directions. It was a strangely intimate gesture in a room full of strangers, and I can do is nod, letting him know I'm following the line of what he's saying. "Thanks, Jui-"  
"HEY LOVERBOY," Elvis bellows from the pool table. "We playin' here, or what?"  
Incredibly, Juice seems to blush before squeezing my arm reassuringly. This earns me a glare from every single female in a twenty-foot radius, but he just ducks his head, returning back to their game and mouthing off to the older man like nothing had happened. And maybe it hadn't. Maybe he's just friendly, what do I know?  
I make my way down the hall, past the wall of mugshots and a beautiful vintage teal Harley on display, and go into the bathroom. I immediately catch my reflection upon entering and cringe-my cheeks are flushed bright red. I can pretend it's only the tequila and by the time I'm ready to head back out into the lion's den I have convinced myself that it's a nice rosy glow and I need another shot or four. I was sure to not be leaving anytime soon, so why not? I accost one of the scantily-clad women waiting in line for the bathroom and and inquire as to which one of these men is Piney, since he was the one with the stash. There's a pause as she eyes me warily before speaking. "You a cop?"  
I roll my eyes at her, fearless. "Do I _look_ like a cop?" The accosted one exchanges glances with an older, clearly superior, woman before shrugging. "He's at the bar." Like there aren't 25 people at the bar at any given moment. "Oxygen tank." She adds cryptically before brushing past me and in through the door.  
"Oxygen tank?" I parrot dumbly, and then it hits me. Oxygen tank. I had already met Piney, at least long enough for him to direct me to the Porn-Skank's kitchen. Okay. So, I'd go find Piney.


	8. Chapter 8

Piney actually_ is_ at the bar, I note with some relief, taking up a stool next to a monstrously tall bearded man, talking animatedly. It was lucky that I had nothing to lose because I never would have been able to walk up to them and interrupt their pow-wow otherwise.  
But I was already in this deep, so why not? I channel my inner-Gemma, walking up to them fearlessly, laying my hand on the older man's beefy arm, causing the younger one's eyes to go round.  
"Piney?" He turns towards me and the first prick of real fear invades my little TM induced bubble of well-being. This is a gnarly man, capable of chewing up and spitting out someone much more substantial than I. He nods, confirming his identity, but doesn't speak, frightening me even further in his stoicism but I straighten my back and grin up at him, every tiny inch of me exuding confidence as I introduce myself to yet another person. "I'm Charlie. Rumor has it that you're a man who knows his tequila?" Piney finally grins at me, setting me at ease before turning to the other guy. "Get lost, Opie." Opie? Wow. "Sure thing, Pop." Still looking mildly shocked, he makes himself scarce and his newly-vacated seat is patted welcomingly for me. I climb up and watch Piney take a hit from his Oxygen tank before, unbelievably, pulling out a joint. I laugh. I can't help it. "Prospect!" He bellows, and a young-looking guy behind the bar snaps to attention. "Two shot glasses. And some tequila-leave the bottle." My kind of man. This demand is met with such speed and precision it's almost scary, and I can't help but feel impressed. Piney sets up our shots before toasting- "To beautiful women." I laugh again, and it feels good to do so. "To handsome gentlemen." And we knock the shot back. Then two, then three. Between my earlier activities and my speedy shots, not to mention the second-hand pot buzz, the room is beginning to spin a little bit when Piney speaks up and changes my pleasant perspective very suddenly.  
"You know, other than the tank, my equipment all works, honey."  
"What?" I genuinely have no idea where he's going with this. What equipment, his o2 mask? "What do you say I show you one of the bedrooms this fine establishment has to offer?" He propositions, shocking me so badly that all I can do is sort of sputter at him in a completely undignified manor. I'm unable to speak which is probably just as well for me. Juice swoops in right at this moment, clapping the old man on his shoulder with manic false enthusiasm. "Yo, man, Church." Piney looks put out but leaves his stool to make it across the room, following Clay and Jax into a set of massive double doors while Juice hangs back.  
Church? Had it really only been an hour since I'd come inside? It was going to be a long, long night. "Look, Charlie," Juice begins haltingly. "He didn't mean anything by it. He thought you were a sweetbutt-I'll talk to him." I disregard most of this statement in favor of repeating stupidly, "Sweetbutt?"  
"They're like hangarounds." Hangawhat? "Only for, uh...bedroom needs." It takes just a second for this to click into place for me.  
"HE THOUGHT I WAS A HOOKER?" I ask loudly, tequila assisting me in my loud and obnoxiousness. Juice cringes (understandably) before frantically looking around, making sure none of the girls heard my outburst, which of course they had, effectively ruining his chance of getting laid for roughly the next year or so. Whoops. I felt bad about this, but not really. "Sorry."  
"JUICE," A Scot I had yet to meet roars. "Git yer porta-reekin' arse in 'ere!" Juice begins to move in double-time, calling to me over his shoulder. "Stay put, Charlie. Prospect, get her some coffee." I've mentioned how touchy bikers were, but I was also learning that they could be overly-familiar if they took a shine to you. Bossy bunch of people. Still, I stayed where I was accepting the coffee black which was how it was given to me. It tasted like shit and would do absolutely nothing to sober me up, but I didn't care as long as it was hot. The other girls in the clubhouse quickly dispersed to parts unknown and I sat there at the bar self-conscious as even the Prospect abandons me for the meeting, aware all over again of how out of my element I was.


	9. Chapter 9

Gemma makes an appearance, striding over to me long enough to let me know that a ride home would be provided once a course of action had been decided upon by her boys. "I promise you, sweetheart, we will fix this." She assures me, "Your bakery will be up and runnin' in no time."  
I guess she's taking off, judging my the way she hefts her purse onto her shoulder, and that's okay-it's been a long day for her, too, what with the babysitting and all. "What about my car?" I ask, not that I could drive it in my current condition. Still, I wonder at its whereabouts.  
Gemma does her chin-grab move again, making sure she has my full attention. How could she not, gripping my face like that?  
"It's taken care of, baby." She kisses my cheek, surprising me before calling out to a hang-around that I needed a refill on my coffee before disappearing out the door in a blaze of hot Old Lady. Dutifully, my cup is refilled and this time I'm actually offered cream and sugar, the hang-around clearly intimidated by Gem even in her absence. I shake my head-nothing could improve this coffee.  
"How clean's that couch over there?" I ask instead, changing the subject.  
I'm gesturing to one of the many love seats in the room and the guy in front of me looks suitably dubious. "Not very."  
I sigh at his answer. "Fuck it," Much to his (and quite frankly, my own) surprise I go over to it anyway, stretching out, propping myself up just enough to keep my coffee elevated. It had been a long fucking day. Before I know it, I'm dozing with the empty cup sitting between my knees, snapping out of it by the chapel doors being flung open, startling me fully awake in a way the caffeine hadn't been able to achieve.  
Juice is one of the first men out, and I see him zero in on my now-vacated bar stool immediately, walking right past me in his haste to jump someones ass. "Where the fuck is she?" I can hear the New York accent in his voice now that he's good and worked up over something and I find myself wondering idly if that always happens when his heat rises, making myself blush immediately. I was a grown woman. I was being ridiculous.  
"Someone shoulda been watchin' her, numbnuts," Numbnuts is falling all over himself trying to explain, but all that's coming out is a stutter, and I take pity on him, using the flat of my hands to slide myself into an upright position, skillfully keeping the mug, although empty, in place. "Juice,"  
All it takes is me calling his name across the room to snap him out of his fury, or at least shove it down some, and he whips around, visibly relaxing once he sees me. This is weird. It's familiar, comforting to call to him, for him to come after me. It's also the last thing I need.  
Blessedly, I'm distracted from the bizarro-world my thoughts are heading into by the Sweetbutts (ew) and their freak sonar hearing, emerging from wherever they were at the sound of the Men's voices, all of them assuming (and rightly so) that the welcome home party was back in full swing now that Club business had been taken care of. Juice ignores them in favor of crossing the room towards me and that makes me feel warm as he reaches me in a few long strides, plucking the coffee mug from between my legs making me blush like a twelve-year-old all over again before offering his hand.  
I take it with absolutely no hesitation, and he pulls me to my feet where I stand almost, but not quite, eye-to-eye with him.  
I blush even harder once I realize that it's been months since a man has held my hand or been anywhere near the space between my knees, even in an innocent enough way, but that this kind of physicality is nothing to Juice-it's commonplace, meaning nothing more than a kiss on the cheek from Gemma.  
What a goody-two-shoes I am to feel any kind of stirring from this. "Come on," Juice tells me, taking a step back but keeping hold of my hand.  
"I'll take you home." _Ah,_ I think,_ I am being dismissed_. And really I don't blame him, I think as I take a look around the room at the scantily clad women, one of whom has found, much to the MC's delight, the stripper pole in the corner and is working it for all she's worth, which, I'm assuming, is a fist-full of crumpled dollar bills. Even knowing what I do about this world, while not much, it's enough to keep a sane person kissing ass, I balk. Or maybe my blood-alcohol level does. Either way, my feet stay planted stubbornly just where they are. "_Wait_." I protest. "Just hang on a minute. Everyone that was in there knows what went down, knows who I am, right?" This is not difficult to surmise, and Juice nods an affirmative. He doesn't look happy about it, but he does it anyway.  
"I don't know anything, Juice," I'm taking care to use his name, to integrate myself with him as much as possible, in hopes that this butters him up a little.  
"My future is completely up in the air, my car is AWOL, and I'm trusting you people here, but I don't even know most of your names. In fact the ONLY thing I know right now is that I'm going to have a bitch of a hangover in the morning. So fill me in here, Juice. Make it okay for me to trust you guys." I plead.  
"Okay?" Juice is endlessly patient with me, something I love him a little for, and drops my hand, pointing to his brothers scattered throughout the great room and giving a name to each one. Dimples, I'm delighted to learn, is actually called Happy. Once he's recited the last man's name, I feel a little better about the whole situation, which is nuts but true, and I try to commit as much as I can to memory. Incredibly, Juice smiles. It's like he gets it.  
"The guys that torched your place are called the Rebels." His smile goes ironic at this, a nod to the stupidity of their existence.  
"A rival MC, a bunch of white-supremacy assholes. They've been going after everyone they think is associated with the club, including Jax's old lady. We're going to take care of this, Charlie, I promise. We'll make it right."  
So I'm not crazy to trust them. That's a relief. "Okay?"  
I exhale the breath I hadn't been aware of holding and smile. Or try to, anyway-the effort feels a little wobbly.  
"Okay," I agree. "Let's go."


	10. Chapter 10

Okay, so this is the last chapter! I hate to disappoint anyone with it, but this was how it kind of came together, short and open-ended. Thank you all so so much for your reviews and follows and favorites I can't tell you how amazing I think you are.

Also, there will be a sequel called 'Criminal' which will be two separate one shots, both of them a flash forward look into how Juice and Charlie ended up, so I hope you'll keep an eye out for those too:)  
I'm trying to get everything up and posted before Sutter does something horrible to Juice and derails the whole project.

Love you guys  
xx

I don't know how I expected my night to end, but being escorted to a Harley by a guy with this many tattoos had not been in any of the scenarios I'd entertained. Silly me. "This one's yours?" I ask as we reach a bike in the middle and Juice beams, looking proud.  
It's a good look on him. "Yep,"  
"It's beautiful." I say honestly as he produces two helmets, smiling down at me larger than ever. "Wanna take her for a spin?"  
I say yes without a seconds thought and then stand there stunned at myself-it's like having an out-of-body experience. "I live-" Juice stops me with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I know-I'm in charge of intel for the Club." Huh. This was a strangely attractive revelation. "Climb on," I do, and once he climbs on in front of me, I hesitate, feeling frozen and dumb. "What do I do now?" Juice smiles at me flirtatiously over his shoulder, and I feel a jolt as he takes my hands and places them, one on top of the other on his hard stomach, laying one of his leather-gloved hands on top of them for a moment, squeezing reassuringly before pulling it away to don his clear glasses. "Just hold on."  
He tells me before reaching to start the bike with a load roar, the whole thing rumbling to life beneath us. Hang on. Okay. I can do that.

We don't speak on our way across town through the chilly night-how can we?-so I'm surprised when Juice fluidly pulls his bike up in front of my house, driving the bike and trusting his intel on my address with absolute confidence. It's quiet once he kills the engine and helps me climb off. I'm in awe of the way he'd driven his bike-completely naturally, like it was an appendage he was born with. It was undeniably sexy.  
The coffee and night air had sobered me up marginally, but I still find myself exhausted, and my fingers fumble with the clasp of the helmet as I stand there looking anywhere but at the man in front of me, and Juice brushes my fingers aside effortlessly, gently doing it himself far more easily than I could have managed, and I stand still, letting him, and feeling like a kindergartener.  
"Where are your keys?" I reach into the bag slung against my hip, producing them with a jangle, holding the house key aloft, separate from the others. Juice plucks them from my fingers without comment and is cutting across my lawn, up to the front door, calling "Stay put," over his shoulder. What is he doing? Do I want to know?  
He goes in, leaving the front door ajar behind himself and I see lights coming on inside, one by one. After a moment, Juice comes around from the rear of the house, apparently having discovered the back door. "All clear." He tells me, "I'll be out here if you need me."  
I blink at him stupidly. "What are you talking about?"  
Juice stands there, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably, debating on how bluntly he should put this.  
"Someone should be on watch, especially over the next few days." He shrugs. "Your car, your business..."  
Juice is kind enough, gentle enough to let me put the rest together for myself. "My house,"  
The only thing left untouched, and maybe not for long. It all hits home for me then, quite literally. Up until that moment I could pretend it wasn't at all personal, wasn't about me. But now...now I needed MC security, needed someone checking my bedroom before I could even go to bed. I try to act unfazed in front of him and paste on a smile. "So, you drew the short straw, huh?"  
Juice laughs at this, the first time I can remember seeing him do so, and it lights his whole face.  
"Actually, I volunteered. Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning." I'm reluctant and bewildered at this sudden turn of events, stuck on the fact that he'd volunteered to stay here and keep me safe. "You'll be okay out here? By yourself?" Juice laughs again at this, and he's wonderful about not making me feel awkward for not inviting him into my home while I slept and I vow to set an alarm, to wake up as early as possible, so he can get back to his normal life. "I'll be fine, Charlie." He actually seems amused as I hug him impulsively.  
"Goodnight, Juice." I take a page from his book, calling this last over my shoulder before locking my house up tight, Murray running right up to me, excited that his mistress is finally home. I scoop him up and take the both of us straight to bed.

My alarm goes off at an indecent hour and I groan, practically peeling my tacky eyes open. Five hours. I had gotten _five hours_ of sleep.  
I know Juice had gotten even less, and I shouldn't complain, but I find myself sulking anyway, blaming the hangover. Murray, oblivious to my pain, is sprawled across my chest, and I make it my first order of business to remove him before slamming the alarm into it's 'off' position. There. That was better. Next, I needed a shower. I feel guilty doing this while Juice is stuck outside (I could see him from my front window when I'd glanced out, propped against his bike, arms and legs crossed, nodding his shaved head to a beat that only he could hear), but not guilty enough to skip it all together. I reek like a biker club, and I'm sure this is something I've mentioned before, but he's cute, and I'm vain.  
So sue me. Once I'm done, and I make sure I'm done quickly, I open my door for him. My hair is damp, coffee is brewing and somehow...somehow it feels right to prop my hip against the door jamb and call out "Hey, fresh-squeezed!" In a lilting voice.  
Juice actually turns around at this almost making me laugh out loud, and I realize I'm happy to see him. I'm getting ahead of myself here, but I can't stop. He gives me the once over as he approaches, leaving me feeling very adequate in my old denim cutoffs and v-neck.  
"Why don't you come on in, grab some breakfast?" I offer, making him grin contagiously, following me inside and immediately going for the kitchen, helping himself to some coffee while I dive headfirst into my fridge, honestly thankful for the distraction.  
"Gonna make some scrambled eggs?" He teases as he grabs a seat, knowing full well I'm in a very precarious state. "Extra runny?"  
I bolt upright, gulping air, willing myself not to vomit. That's the last thing in the world I want Juice to see me doing.  
"Get bent." I tell him absent-mindedly, waving a tube of crescent rolls around, green faced.  
"Just for that I'm not putting butter on these suckers." This makes him laugh again, and my nausea settles considerably, because I'm too consumed with watching him to think about it. "What, not homemade?" He continues as I pop the tube and begin to roll them out onto the counter "Not today," I answer, reaching around him to turn the oven on, feeling a pang-I should be starting the ovens at work.  
"Why did I drink so much last night?" I groan aloud, being a baby about the entire thing and not caring. I can barely bend over to place the rolls into the oven without my head feeling like it's going to crack in half. "Piney has that influence over people," Juice tells me, drawing me out of my thoughts for a moment. Piney. I had almost forgotten about him. I wish I had. I groan anew, shuddering this time for the full effect. "Did he really think I was a sticky bun?" I ask as I make myself a cup of coffee and slide into the seat across from him.  
"A sweetbutt?" Juice corrects me, not unkindly.  
"Yeah. But he probably thought I was a sweetbutt too the first time he met me, so I wouldn't worry about it." I laugh, picturing a sweet innocent Juice encountering Piney for the first time and find myself blurting out to my horror, "I like you."  
Juice, instead of taking me for a weirdo, thankfully seems pleased at this information, blushing which is something I feel proud for being responsible over considering his cafe au lait skin tone. "You're not so bad either, Charlie." Before there's time for things to go awkward and quiet, Juice launches into a discussion about the club, his hometown, what got me started baking and I settle back into my chair, ready to get to know him as we wait for our breakfast, realizing with startling clarity that Juice is exactly what I want.

_~This slope is treacherous_  
_This path is reckless_  
_This slope is treacherous_  
_And I, I, I like it_

_Two headlights shine through the sleepless night_  
_And I will get you, get you alone_  
_Your name has echoed through my mind_  
_And I just think you should, think you should know_  
_That nothing safe is worth the drive and I will_  
_Follow you, follow you home..._  
_I'll follow you, follow you home..._


End file.
